


Get Lucky

by mssrj_335



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Again, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clubbing, Crack-ish, Finn Objectification, First Meetings, Flirting, Frontman Finn, He's thirsty, Inspired by Music, Language, M/M, POV Poe Dameron, Someone Help Poe Dameron, catch the vibe ™, look i just wanted to put finn in leather pants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:21:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25522792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mssrj_335/pseuds/mssrj_335
Summary: Poe's dragged to a club with his friends. Turns out they have a very attractive performance tonight.
Relationships: Finn/Poe Dameron, Poe Dameron/Finn
Comments: 14
Kudos: 49
Collections: FinnPoe Week 2020





	Get Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> my dudes, this is just me having fun, hope you do too lol  
> here's the song: https://youtu.be/nyM7DFdz7Iw  
> it's a bop in any incarnation but i really dig this one

The music’s thumping so hard Poe feels it in his teeth. Like, right down to his guts. He’s a little drunk, a little sloppy, and the group performing right now is strobing the life out of him. In a good way.

It’s such a strange music combo. Poe’s never heard it before. Some kind of techno-satan-babble but everything feels good right now, and he’s pretty sure Gorgeous up there is to blame. Jess abandoned him an hour ago, at least. He thinks maybe she’s hooking up with some long-legged thing in a dark corner somewhere. Snap and Karé seem to have forgotten they’re in public and are definitely getting a grind on. So Poe’s left all by his lonesome, staring up at Gorgeous and his leather pants and his creepy— _sexy_ , his brain unhelpfully supplies—skull face paint. What the hell’s his name? They just started their set. The MC introduced the group. Poe can’t really remember the name of the bunch, something like the Order or the First Order or whatever. Gorgeous might’ve been DJ Eight-Seven. He’s pretty sure about that. He just knows Eight-Seven is making him _feel_ things and all of them are a little unhealthy.

Who’s idea was it to come to this club, anyway? It’s basically a fetish joint, nearly everyone’s covered in leather. Distantly, he thinks it may have been Jess. But the drinks are good and the music’s better so Poe just goes with it. Maybe he’ll get lucky. Eventually. And if he’s lucky he’ll get lucky eventually with Eight-Seven. In his dreams, anyway. Gorgeous on stage is feeding it all, bumping that dark moody bass and cyberpunk shit so hard everyone’s a little hypnotized. Christ, he’s a whole snack and Poe’s just about starving.

Eight-Seven and company start in on a new tune, a little surprising with its lilting keyboard and driving bass combination. _Oh, that’s intriguing_. Eight-Seven marches thick black boots to the front of the stage, mic in hand, and shouts,

“Happy Halloween, animals! How’re y’all doin’?”

Apparently, he’s been here before. This mob _loves_ him. He’s absolutely magnetic, solid and stocky and stalking up and down the stage, and when the crowd drunkenly yells at him, Poe yells with them. Eight-Seven’s making his way back to Poe’s end, pointing at some spot out in space.

“We’re gonna do this for you, and I want you to jump for me! Can I hear, ‘Yes, sir!’”

The crowd screams again—it actually sounds like ‘yes, sir’—fuck, this guy is good. He’s close enough Poe can see _holy shit_ he’s shirtless, ribs and phalanges and vertebrae painted in purple UV paint that glows on his dark skin. He pumps his fist _one two three four_ and the mob’s just drunk enough to jump like mad when the beat drops. _Animals is right_. Even Poe gets caught up in it, vibing and riding a wave of sex and booze high enough he reaches toward the stage and Gorgeous swaggering his way. The air vibrates for about thirty seconds, a hard melody swaying like Eight-Seven’s perfect hips. Abruptly, the tune drops out and Eight-Seven’s crooning to the throng over clean thudding bass and electronic garble,

[“Living in the night](https://youtu.be/nyM7DFdz7Iw), 'neath devils torn asunder.” Eight-Seven crouches, brushing his fingers over some grasping for him; a benevolent god. “You call on me to solve a crooked rhyme.”

Women and men look equally faint and Poe’s just so, so jealous.

“As I'm closing in—” His eyes cut to Poe. Oh fuck, maybe Eight-Seven heard that jealous thought.“—imposing on your slumber.” The smirk that crinkles his skull paint makes Poe’s knees weak. He snakes across the stage floor, singing still, “You call on me as bells begin to chime.”

Eight-Seven pops down on his hands and knees, leaning out over the stage lip like some kind of tempestuous siren. Poe just about loses his grip on his drink when Eight-Seven winks an ice-blue eye at him and sings,

“Are you on the square? Are you on the level?” He reaches, tips Poe’s chin up, tilts his head like a predator. “Are you ready to swear right here, right now before the devil?”

Fuck, Poe’s ready to swear to anything for that kind of devil.

In an instant, Eight-Seven’s on his feet, jumping, hyping the mob an absolutely frenzy and the driving theme’s back with, “That you're on the square! that you're on the level! That you're ready to stand right here, right now? Right here, right now?”

For the next verse, Eight-Seven goes back to the other side of the stage. Poe’s still drooling though, watching Eight-Seven bend and undulate and generally make a temptation of himself in those tight leather pants. Fuck if he can help it, Poe’s an ass man and _this_ man has everything going for him. The whole thing’s getting to be a bit more than he can handle. Someone on stage has turned on a smoke machine. It swirls around Eight-Seven’s ankles and the scent of it bites in Poe’s nose. Eight-Seven asks the horde the same question, “Are you ready to swear right here, right now?” then a loud, jarring bridge lights the place up. Poe closes his eyes and leans his head back, so caught up in the bass and the machine gun ratattat grunge feeling that he doesn’t even notice Eight-Seven’s back on his side and in his face until the next verse starts. Eight-Seven’s dick is just above eye level and—god help him—Poe’s fucking salivating. Eight-Seven grinds, looking at Poe from under his facepaint, extending his hand down and putting his boot up on an amp. Now Poe has a very, very vivid idea of how this man might fuck; those hips can’t be lying. _Shit_.

Yeah, that’s—that’s a lot. For the rest of the set, Poe keeps his eyes firmly on Eight-Seven and all his lascivious moves. There’s gotta be something there, because Eight-Seven keeps coming back to Poe’s side whenever he decides to do something particularly lewd, teasing and smiling. Poe’s just drunk enough to hope that’s for him, anyway. The performance is over way too quickly, though. The group makes their way off stage and Poe loses sight of the frontman, much to his disappointment. With a sigh to himself, Poe decides to post up at the bar. He hits another mojito, stares out into the crowd. The next group’s good but not nearly as good as Eight-Seven’s. At some point, Poe opts for water. Then, something down the bar catches his eye.

Huh. Those biceps looks familiar.

Poe eyes the man that’s taken a barstool a couple down from him. He’s got the same twisted hair and leather pants. But if it is Eight-Seven, he’s taken off his face paint and ice-blue contacts and put on a clean black shirt, cuffed at the sleeves and baring some _very_ interesting tattoos. And he’s sitting alone, sipping at what looks like an old fashioned.

Even if it’s not Eight-Seven, he’s the best looking guy Poe’s seen at the bar that night. So, he tosses back the rest of his water and decides to give it a try.

What could it hurt?

“You need some company?” he asks as he sidles over.

The guy tilts his head Poe’s way. Oh, it _is_ Eight-Seven. That tilt is too familiar. He looks softer like this, his eyes big and dark and a little bit shyer. Poe decides he likes it even better.

“Sure.” Eight-Seven’s mouth quirks up in a teasing smile. “You like the show?”

“Definitely liked what I saw.” Eight-Seven eyes him carefully, calculating. This isn’t the same man that was up on stage but his gaze is still _doing things_ to Poe’s guts. Absently, he wonders if Eight-Seven would be interested in rearranging them later. _Ha._ Poe wets his lips and decides to go for it. Again. “Any chance I might see a little more later?”

Eight-Seven swallows around a mouthful of whiskey and tilts his head again. “Why wait?”

Poe feels the air punch out of him. Eight-Seven’s grinning like a maniac, like he knows what reaction he just got. And he probably does. Eight-Seven slides easy from his seat and reaches for Poe’s wrist, encircling it in a loose, inviting grip. Christ, Poe’s more than a little desperate to feel that around his dick, thank you. Still, he fumbles to get his footing back. Two can play the suave game. It’s just that maybe Poe’s off his game right now. Damn distraction.

“You got a name? Or you want me to just call you Eight-Seven?” he asks. Then, almost as an afterthought, “Or sir?”

That breaks a true, honest grin over the guy’s face. He leans, pulling Poe in at the same time. “You can call me Finn,” he says against Poe’s ear, drawing a shiver right out of him. “Sir works fine, too.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He likes the sound of that. Poe knows he’s looking like a fish out of water but Finn doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he yanks Poe back toward the VIP section. Apparently, he likes the sound of that, too. Oh, what a night to get lucky.


End file.
